In the Year of the Cat
by DjinniFires
Summary: Ugarte:"When I first came to Casablanca, I thought...but what right do I have to think?" How did a Hungarian Jew with a Spanish name, Austrian accent and a love for Italian words find himself dealing in documents in 1938 Morocco? Knowing the danger, why hadn't he said "Addio!" sooner? Inspired by Al Stewart's song and an abiding passion for Peter Lorre's characters. 15ch planned.
1. In a Country Where They Turn Back Time

**In a Country Where They Turn Back Time**

_**Casablanca - July 1938 – Morning and Early Evening**_

Guillermo Ugarte watched the Chinese woman thread her way through the bazaar. _She looks even more out of place than I do_.

Amid throngs of Moroccan housewives in modest headscarves and European sightseers with Parisian hats and short coiffures, this woman wore her black hair loose and shimmering down her back. She glanced furtively about, as if wary of attracting attention, but her navy blue trenchcoat betrayed her. How could such a sweltering outfit fail to raise questions among the pale summer suits and flowing cotton robes everyone else at the marketplace had been sensible enough to wear? When she twisted to look behind her, Guillermo caught a blaze of orange silk at her throat.

Abruptly, somebody grabbed his elbow. "Gerzson."

Guillermo grimaced. Even in Casablanca, his friend Jakob insisted on calling him by the Hungarian name he used when he was back in Budapest, engraving illustrations for Arany Publishing House. Maybe if he didn't answer to it, Jakob would take the hint.

"Gerzson!" his friend insisted, "look at me."

Reluctantly, Guillermo turned his back on his mystery woman to smile faintly at his fellow tourist's attempt at humor: a red fez perched above his fleshy, good-natured face and a stuffed spiny-tailed lizard clutched in his beefy hand. A foot taller than Guillermo and twice as fat, Jakob had a talent for making everything familiar and everyone part of the family—a talent that a few years earlier had helped ease Guillermo's transition from being an alien Spanish Jew in Austria to being an alien Spanish Jew in Hungary. Guillermo could never stay annoyed at Jakob.

Playing along, Guillermo stuck his finger in the dead lizard's mouth and pretended he'd been bitten. Jakob laughed, then prattled on about how amazed their co-workers would be by the copper hookah, embroidered lambskin caftan, and carved elephants he would be bringing back home.

As he kept his head nodding, Guillermo felt his smile slip a little. This trip to Morocco was supposed to have been _his_ homecoming—hadn't his father been born right here in Casablanca? Instead it was Jakob who jollied the old men at the coffeehouse into pointing the way to the best shops, who bargained the merchants down to their only-for-locals prices, who made the belly dancers at their hotel giggle.

Guillermo—he stood to the side and watched, as much a foreigner here as he was everyplace else he had ever been.

He stole a glance over his shoulder. The Chinese woman was nowhere to be seen. Quickly, he scanned the crowd. He raised his chin when he glimpsed her ducking behind a stand hung with brass lamps. His eyes lingered on her as she passed into the shadows along a blue-tiled wall. When she reached a low, wooden door, he saw her knock in a strange pattern—tap, tap, pause, tap, tap, tap. The door inched open, and she slipped inside.

_Gone. Gone forever_.

Guillermo blinked. Then absentmindedly, he scanned the market stalls. Vibrant rugs, silver tea sets, and sparkling coin necklaces vied for his attention. He should buy some trinkets. People would expect it of him. Come Monday, even his ex-wife Frieda would be asking, "So, what did you bring me?" And when he handed her the leather handbag, the scarf or whatever nonsense he finally settled on, she would wrinkle her nose and say, "Was it worth it, Willi—all the money you wasted on your great, grand adventure? Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Bloody hell."

The high-pitched English voice startled Guillermo. He turned his head. The speaker was a tall blond young man in a safari outfit—nearly half Guillermo's age. The blond's companion could have been his twin except that he had red hair. The two were making their way through the mob of shoppers almost as determinedly as had his mystery woman. Guillermo strained to hear what they were saying. Being a polyglot had its advantages.

The blond growled. "She came this way. I know she did."

"I told you we shouldn't try to handle this ourselves," the redhead soothed.

"Bloody hell," the blond said again, then turned on his heel to push through the bazaar in a different direction.

_She_, Guillermo repeated to himself. Had those two been the menace that had made his mystery woman watch her back? He knew their type. _Born bullies_. Hadn't he had to defend himself against such arrogant fellows most of his childhood? How dare they—two strapping young men—stalk a lone, defenseless woman?

Guillermo passed a hand across his forehead. It came away damp. The sun was high—almost at the point that would shut the marketplace down for its midday nap. His father may have been born in Casablanca, but he had been born in Vienna. He wasn't used to such heat. It did strange things to his mind.

"Jakob," he said. "Help me get a good price on those ceramic beads over there. They'll make nice gifts."

Twenty minutes later, nine strands of pretty little beads snugly wrapped in newspaper under one arm and four pairs of goatskin slippers dangling from the other, Guillermo dutifully followed their tour guide, Madame Bertuska, back through the maze of streets that led to their hotel.

"I advise you all to get a good rest," she called gaily over her shoulder to her dozen charges. "No skipping your nap to play pinochle. Tomorrow we'll be flying home. So tonight, I have planned an extra special treat. We're all going to the Blue Parrot."

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In honor of his last night in Casablanca, Guillermo put on his new white suit. The boxy shoulders gave his slight build some elegance—at least that was what he had told himself when he'd plunked down more for it than his engraver's salary could justify. If only his face had more _leading man_ qualities. The chipped mirror on the back of the hotel room door reflected the features that had earned him the nickname _gnome_ the day he'd started Volksschule. His dark brown eyes were so large, they dominated his face, and his flat ears were nearly pointed.

With a shrug, he raised his comb to his short black hair and slicked it to the right. Then the door swung toward him, and he jumped back. Jakob ambled in, vigorously toweling his curly brown hair.

"Knock, why don't you?" Guillermo muttered.

Jakob raised a bushy eyebrow at his roommate's fancy attire. "I'll remember for later. I wouldn't want to disturb you with a lady."

Guillermo's short glimpse of his mystery woman's profile flashed through his mind—high patrician forehead, exotic slanted eyes, and long, curved lips. "No," he replied dryly. "You might have broken my nose."

Jakob grinned his apology and bumped the door shut with his rear end. He was wearing the same tan suit he'd worn to the marketplace, not minding that hanging it in the bathroom while he showered had wilted any claim to pressed creases it once had held.

Guillermo bit his lip. Now the vanity of his own outfit seemed a trifle foolish, but he'd look even sillier if he changed it now.

"Don't forget to switch your papers from your other pants," Jakob reminded him. "You could get into a lot of trouble in Casablanca if you're stopped and don't have your papers."

Guillermo patted his hip pocket. "Don't worry. I have my passport and visa right here."

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**Author's Note: Please tell me what you think; I'd really appreciate it.**


	2. Everybody Comes to the Blue Parrot

**Everybody Comes to the Blue Parrot**

_**Casablanca - July 1938 – Later That Evening**_

_So this is the Blue Parrot_, Guillermo thought as he surveyed the large but unexceptional tavern. The live namesake that had squawked at them from a hanging perch by the entrance had raised a murmur of expectation from his tour group. Now that they were inside, the only exotic touches he could see were a couple of flyspecked, tile-framed mirrors and a few bedraggled potted palms. Even the spinning of the overhead ceiling fans was half-hearted.

The bottles of whiskey and gin lined up behind the counter were encouraging. Their own hotel, adhering to strict Moslem principles, served only coffee and tea. But the good-time girls posed along the adjacent wall—half of them in flowered sundresses and the other half in bangle-studded choli tops and wispy, see-through skirts reminiscent of dirty French postcards—they were merely depressing.

Guillermo heard the faint lilt of a reed flute competing with drums, tambourines and an oud, but the whisper of static told him the Arabic music was coming from a radio. The belly dancers at their hotel were considered folk artists. One could clap along, but one could not touch. If any of these ladies had enough talent to keep a beat, he suspected that a few francs would allow one's appreciation to be carried to some sleazy upstairs room. So much for Madame Bertuska's extra special treat.

Then he caught sight of her, and his whole evening changed.

The booths off to one side were veiled behind curtains of wooden beads. At the center table, across from a young American-looking couple and half-hidden by a fat gentleman in a fez, sat his mystery lady shuffling cards. Oh, her hair was different—pulled back from her face with two silver combs and coiled at the nape of her neck. When she leaned forward, her high-collared, white silk dress revealed her slim figure. Instead of wary, she now appeared in charge as she dealt hands to her three companions. But despite the changes, he knew it was she.

_What is she doing in this seedy place? Is she a rich tourist slumming it? How can I meet her? What will I say?_

Guillermo looked away and fumbled in his breast pocket for his cigarettes. As he lit one, he noticed Madame Bertuska. Her cheeks were growing pink as she eyed the line of prostitutes, the rough-looking men conspiring over beers at the back of the room, the Spanish sailors lounging against the bar, and the drunk snoring by the rear door. Two of the married men were staring longingly at the bottles of hard liquor, but neither made a move. Madame Olga, the professor's wife, had pursed her upper lip. The spinster twins, Erna and Malina, merely gawked.

Out of nowhere, Guillermo felt a clap on his back so hard, he almost bit off his cigarette filter. _Jakob_. His friend gave him a grin, then ambled across the room, fiddled with the knob on the oversized radio, chose some French dance music, and asked the floozy in the pink-and-yellow dress to take a spin.

The old bear was never out of his element. _Why can't I be more like him?_

Guillermo stole a glance at his mystery woman, then sauntered to a greasy side table. With elaborate nonchalance, he settled himself on an awkward, little, wrought iron chair at an angle that allowed him to study her out the corner of his eye.

Had the four cardplayers come to the Blue Parrot together, perhaps setting out from their fancy hotel to find _the real _Casablanca? Or had they met here by chance? To decide how to approach her, he needed those answers. But for the moment, being near her was enough. He pretended to savor his smoke as his sideways gaze caressed her sable hair, her ivory cheeks, her delicate hands.

Then Madame Bertuska bustled up to him.

"Mr. Ugarte, I'm so sorry. This place has changed considerably since I was here last. I doubt they even serve proper meals. But never fear. The evening need not be wasted. If we return to the Riad D'Or, I'm certain the kitchen can fix us up a nice cold supper. I have a couple of decks. We can play duroc."

Guillermo took a long drag on his cigarette. Then he favored his tour guide with his most genial smile. "I'm quite comfortable here, thank you. And I mustn't leave Jakob. No telling what mischief he'll get himself into. Don't trouble yourself. We'll find our way back."

"So." Unexpectedly, Madame Bertuska winked. "Just make sure you come in time to pack before checkout at eleven."

As Madame Bertuska rounded up the rest of her flock, the fat man in the fez took notice. He folded his hand hastily and wiggled his way down his bench and out of the booth. As the wooden beads rattled back together, the Chinese goddess calmly fanned out her cards face up in sets of five and two. Guillermo heard the man across from her groan as she deftly swept his little pile of francs into her purse.

Guillermo stubbed out his cigarette in his table's already overflowing ashtray. He closed his eyes as his resolve wavered between lighting another and seizing his chance. Abruptly, he pushed back from his table and stood, then quickly turned to grab his chair to keep it from toppling.

An image of Frieda rolling her eyes loomed in his mind. Decisively, he turned away from it and forced himself to stroll to the center booth. _I see you're playing cards. Need a fourth? I see you don't belong here. Mind if I steal you away?_

Reaching the point of no return, Guillermo grabbed a handful of beads to pull them aside. One strand broke, and the little wooden beads clattered on the tile floor.

At the sound, his mystery woman looked up. She stared at him a moment. Guillermo thought he saw some odd flicker of expression, almost of recognition. But that was ridiculous. He was imagining things.

"Excuse me," he mumbled in German. He repeated the phrase in French, tried Spanish, then stopped—at a loss for which language to use.

"You are three times excused," his Chinese goddess answered in proper Oxfordian English. "Never mind the beads. Signor Ferrari is at fault for his lack of upkeep. The somewhat large gentleman trying to convince your comrades to stay—he owns this establishment."

Her coral lips curved slightly. Then she looked down again at the cards she was shuffling. Guillermo realized she was giving him time to respond, but his mind had gone blank.

She slid the deck across the table so the cards could be cut. Hastily, the young man put his hand over the young woman's with the familiarity of a husband with a wife. "No, dear. We really must be getting back."

_They're leaving. Say something!_ Guillermo pleaded with himself. What if his mystery lady left with them?

The young woman dipped her chin to throw her man a pretty little moue of appeal. "Just one more. She's won eight times in a row. The odds are—"

"That I'll win again," the mystery lady finished the young woman's sentence. "I was born in the year of the cat."

Guillermo saw the young man shoot her a look that said he thought something more than an auspicious birthday was involved. _How dare he!_

"But, darling . . ." the young woman pleaded.

The young man lifted her hand off the deck and entwined her fingers with his. "Sweetheart." Then he edged down their bench, pulling her after him.

The mystery woman reached for her deck. "Masalaam," she murmured as the husband hurried his wife away.

_We're alone_. Guillermo swallowed hard. "I—I'll play."

"Pai Gow for two?" she answered without looking at him. "I would advise against it."

Quickly, Guillermo slid himself onto the bench the couple had vacated. "Because you're uncommonly lucky and you always win? Because you were . . . born in the year of the cat?" The exotic phrase came slowly off his tongue.

She glanced up and flashed him a brilliant smile. "No. Because I cheat."

Guillermo leaned back with a nervous laugh while his eyebrows knitted together. Surely, she was joking. How should he respond?

She turned her head, and Guillermo followed her gaze to the front door through which Madame Bertuska was just disappearing. Signor Ferrari scowled at his fleeing customers and lumbered over to the bar. Irritably, he snapped his fingers at the three prostitutes who had not yet coupled off with one of his patrons. One of them bent down to the radio and found some Arabic music again. The other two padded to the center of the room and started to shimmy. Jakob and a couple of the sailors began clapping to the beat of the drums.

"Signor Ferrari won't accept that he can't have it both ways," the mystery lady said. "The Blue Parrot cannot be the hub of all illicit activity in Casablanca and still be a must-see for the respectable, middle-class tourist."

_Middle-class tourist_. That meant him. "But you're here," Guillermo said without thinking.

She clicked open her white silk purse and tucked her deck inside. "Who said I was respectable?"

Guillermo's chin dropped a little, and without meaning to, he let his gaze slide again to the center of the tavern where Jakob was giving his Hungarian interpretation of the belly dance between the two harem costumed hookers.

"No, not that!" The Chinese woman giggled—and for a moment, she sounded like a child. "No. There are many things I do for money. But that is not one of them."

Guillermo passed a hand across his jaw. He exhaled slowly, amazed at how relieved he felt. She had meant the Pai Gow. That wasn't so bad. "You gamble—for a living. That's . . . interesting. I've never met—"

But she was looking at Signor Ferrari again. "Excuse me." She slipped off her bench and out of the booth, taking her purse with her.

Guillermo sat motionless a moment. Then he slapped a hand to his forehead. What was wrong with him? He'd accused her of being a card sharp. That _hadn't_ been what she'd meant. Why hadn't he offered her a drink? Why hadn't he asked her to dance?

Frieda's voice wafted up from his subconscious: _Guillermo Ugarte, man of inaction._

Gloomily, he scanned the room for his mystery woman. She had opened her purse and was handing something to Signor Ferrari. It looked suspiciously like she was giving him his cut of her winnings. Troubled, Guillermo watched the fat man pocket her offering, then fold his hands on top of his enormous stomach. Whatever he said next, the Chinese woman didn't like it. Guillermo saw her throw her head back to give Ferrari a piece of her mind. In answer, he smiled, draped an arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear. She shook her head. He whispered again. Hesitantly, she nodded.

As she turned her head toward him, Guillermo looked down to inspect his fingernails. Then he reached in his breast pocket for his cigarettes.

In a moment, the music switched back to jazz—a slow, swing number. Just as he'd succeeded in lighting his match on the third try, he heard the rustle of the wooden beads. He looked up to see his mystery woman gazing at him with solemn, fathomless eyes. "Would you like to dance?" she asked.

Guillermo stared at her so long, his match burned his fingertips. Distractedly, he shook out the flame and relegated both the match and his cigarette to the table's ashtray. "If you don't mind."

Guillermo was barely aware of gliding out of the booth, rising to his feet, and stepping toward her. All he could see were her eyes. Their color was as deep and dark as his own, but their shape was an exquisite almond he'd only seen in photographs. She was a couple of inches taller than he, but he was used to being shorter than his dance partners. He could see in her eyes that it didn't matter. When he reached out to cup her shoulder and clasp her hand in the prescribed manner, she moved closer. He inhaled sharply—an intoxicating scent he couldn't identify. Then he wrapped his arms around her. As they began swaying to the melancholy saxophone, she laid her cheek on his shoulder. Beneath the bittersweet melody, he could hear her heartbeat.

"I like you," she whispered. "If only we could have met in the year of the cat."

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**Author's Note: Please tell me what you think; I'd really appreciate it.**


	3. She Doesn't Give You Time for Questions

**She Doesn't Give You Time for Questions**

_**Casablanca - July 1938 – Still Later that Evening**_

Much too soon for Guillermo's liking, the song ended. Slowly, he and his Chinese goddess drifted to a stop. The French announcer began touting a shop that carried both American cigarettes and Cuban cigars. She stirred in his arms, and reluctantly, he let her go. Their dance had dislodged one of her combs, and a wing of her long black hair hung across one side of her face.

"Thank you," she said. "That did me more good than you know."

Guillermo took hold of her hand. "Tell me your name." _I can't keep thinking of you as my mystery lady_.

She slipped her fingers from his and reached up to tidy her hair. "Lulu. That's what everyone calls me."

"No," Guillermo persisted. "Tell me your real name—the one your mother and father chose for you. Before whatever it was happened that brought you to Casablanca."

She looked aside. Then she forced a smile. "Ting Xia."

He let the exotic syllables sweep over him like an ocean wave. "Ting Xia." He hoped he hadn't mangled the pronunciation. "My name is Guillermo. Guillermo Ugarte. Please. Sit down with me. Let me buy you a drink." _I have so much to ask you, so much I want to say._

"No," she said quickly. "You needn't spend any money on me. I enjoyed meeting you, but it is time for me to go." She'd slung her purse behind her back while they danced. Now she tucked it up under her arm again.

Guillermo reached out to brush back a stray strand of her hair. "Let me walk you home. It's late, it's not safe—"

"I know Casablanca. I don't need a protector. I have some business to complete with Signor Ferrari. Then I'll catch a taxi at the corner."

Impulsively, Guillermo grabbed Ting Xia's hand and kissed the back of it. "Please. I feel like I've known you a long—like I've been looking—but we've barely met. Please stay. Give me a chance." _You said, I like you_.

She ran her eyes over his face, as if memorizing the details. "No. This is how things are."

Reluctantly, Guillermo let go of her hand.

"Adieu," Ting Xia murmured and turned away.

As he stared after her, something inside him said, _Not yet_.

Since they'd started dancing, more customers had arrived. Guillermo watched Ting Xia weave her way through the couples gathering at the center of the room to take advantage of the hot little jazz number now blaring scratchily from the radio. As she passed, a number of people called out, "Lulu!" Two elderly Arabs playing chess nodded their greetings.

_She does know Casablanca_, Guillermo thought. With her in it, the Blue Parrot no longer seemed disreputable. It seemed warm and friendly.

Signor Ferrari, now bellied up to the bar, was another matter. As his Chinese Goddess approached him again, Guillermo narrowed his eyes. He didn't like the smarmy smile that came over the fat man's face when he heard what Ting Xia had to say. Ferrari set down the whisky bottle he had been about to pour and made an ostentatious salaam, beckoning her to accompany him into a backroom.

When they had disappeared into whatever private den Ferrari had chosen to _complete_ their business, Guillermo hunkered down on the nearest chair, prepared to stare at the door until Ting Xia came out and he could make his case to her again.

Talk, laughter and music surrounded him. He might as well have been alone. He rested his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, both vigilant and distracted. Traveling with a tour group to escape the rut of his everyday life had been futile. He had just taken the rut with him. In two weeks of holiday, he hadn't connected with anything in this strange, glamorous land—until tonight. And tonight would be his last.

_Ting Xia!_ By this time tomorrow, he would be staring out an airplane window, reflecting on the stars, wondering if she were gazing at them too, resigned to never seeing her again. That was how things were. That was how they had to be.

_But not yet._

He recalled an engraving he had done for an edition of the Arabian Nights. In it, a beggar boy had caught a djinni by the toe, refusing to let go until he was granted three wishes. Guillermo had no idea what his three wishes would be, but he was sure that whatever they were, Ting Xia could fulfill them.

When the door to Ferrari's backroom swung open, Guillermo sat up straight. He craned his neck to see around the barmaid who'd walked up to offer him a drink. He watched the fat man swagger out, cast an assessing eye over his tavern, then join a black-bearded man seated in an alcove. Guillermo stood, tense and alert, not sure what he would say to make Ting Xia stay with him, but knowing he had to try.

She didn't come through the door.

Guillermo strode across the Blue Parrot. His resolve parted a path through the sea of talkers and dancers.

Jakob called out to him, "Gerzson, hang on a minute."

Guillermo ignored him. He rounded the bar, disregarding the bartender's affronted challenge, and ducked into the backroom.

He found himself in a shadowy storage area—cartons of booze on one side, Signor Ferrari's desk and safe on the other. Ting Xia was nowhere in sight.

Guillermo brought his fists down like hammers on his own thighs. "Scheisse! Gottfluch es zur hoelle! Dumkopf! Idiot!"

He hurried across the dank floor, yanked open the rear door, and rushed outside. The alley was narrow and dark. It smelled of spilt liquor, rotting vegetables, and cat piss.

_No Ting Xia_.

He strode a few yards to the left, peering into the darkness. He turned and strode past the Blue Parrot in the other direction, trying to draw a map in his mind of where this alley might lead and what streets might lie beyond it that could take him to the marketplace and that hidden door in the blue-tiled wall.

Then he heard a scream.

Guillermo took off running.

He ran blind, bumping into piled crates, splashing in puddles, scaring rats into skittering out of his path. Soon, the alley angled off into a courtyard. On the far side, he saw a shorter alley with lights and possibly a street beyond it. Had she escaped that way? Or was she in the shadows nearby, alone and defenseless, cowering before whatever had made her cry out? His heart pounded in his throat as he swung left, then right, desperate to know which direction to go.

She shrieked again. Someone retorted in a mocking voice. Guillermo froze. It was the same arrogant English voice he'd heard that morning.

Slowly, Guillermo turned. At first, he saw nothing. Then someone in an upper story apartment lit a lamp. In the faint light, he caught a glimpse of Ting Xia's white silk dress. The two bullies had backed her against a wall.

_Two_. And each was at least a foot taller and a decade younger than he was. Guillermo's stomach constricted like a knot. _Two_.

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**Hello: Please review and tell me what you think. Thanks!**


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